Home Comforts

I looked down, shuffled my feet, saw the displaced powdered snow that covered my shoes like sifted flour. The air was crisp, a Lalique cloud sky backlit by a hidden watery sun. It was early afternoon yet the streets were unusually quiet as I struggled homewards, arms laden with heavy plastic bags that cut deep ridges, knife sharp, into my hands. The once crisp air began to turn icy, my steaming breath bore witness to it as I raised my head from its snuggled protective woolly scarf, drawn tight enough to keep out the wind’s chilly searching fingers without quite strangling me, to see what I dreaded even more than the snow – fog. Like a lace net curtain it drew a veil across my vision, at first a soft haze then to a theatre safety curtain that defied penetration. I could taste it, dirty, soaking up the oxygen like a hungry beast. I buried my mouth once more into my scarf for protection and felt the warm beads of breath form on its inner surface but the fear of suffocation brought me up for sharp breaths before delving down once more.

My path took me under a railway bridge. I thought I heard muffled footsteps behind me. Someone was following me? I stopped, listened – they stopped - I continued – they continued. I swung around – just a swirl of fog. Was I letting my imagination run away with me? The muffled sound of my own footsteps had reduced to a gibbering wreck. Moving quickly on, my feet began to crunch – no it wasn’t my feet it was the snow – now beginning to freeze it had turned from soft powder to a glittering glistening sugar icing. I turned to look at the footprints of where I’d trod – no unexplained muffled sound now only my own personal crunch. Emerging from under the bridge the steep incline beyond proved difficult. My breath was coming hard and fast at the exertion required to propel me and my load to the top. I could hear my gasps and feel the pain as the piercing cold struck the back of my dry throat.

“Can I give you a hand?” the question had me jumping out of my skin as I turned sideways to search out its source.

“I said, can I ......?” Before the repeated question ended I‘d spun round to find a middle-aged lady standing behind me.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you!”

“You didn’t, I mean, well you did - it was just that I didn’t see you.”

Where the conversation went from there I can’t properly recall. It seemed to dip and rise on a wave of many topics and in such a short time. All I know is that having climbed the hill and turned a few corners we’d somehow arrived at my destination and I felt safe and strangely comforted.

“Well, better be getting on, nice to have this time with you.” She smiled and for a moment I thought I saw a fleeting sadness cross her face.

“Yes, same here. Do you live nearby?”

“No, just keeping a long held promise to visit my daughter – make sure she’s OK.”

“And is she?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, I believe she is” she said as her eyes pooled with tears.

I watched her walk away, turn and there on the edge of vision her smiling face and waving hand defied the fog to hang for a second or two longer before completely claiming her. With hand on gate, I stood dwelling on her kindness, intuitiveness, consolation and elusive familiarity. What had we talked about to display these qualities? The fog began to lift as soft snowflakes dusted my hair and face. I turned once again to catch sight of my unexpected companion but she was out of sight. I looked down at clearly defined footprints – my crunch. Only my crunch!